The Texan and The Hippie
by SmittyGirl
Summary: A young musician from Texas heads West to seek his fortune… This has been in the back of my mind for months. I finally finished it, though the door is always open to write more from this era. Friendship feels!


Something about that summer felt electric.

Magic.

Unnerving.

Mike had left Texas only a day earlier, his head full of plans to venture to the new "promised land" of California. The music scene was picking up there, he had heard, and if he could convince the right person to give him a listen, surely he could make it. He wasn't asking God for endless fame and fortune; he only wanted enough success to help support the family back home. The Nesmiths weren't exactly blessed with good fortune, but they were a clever lot. They made things work.

The sun blazed from its noon-high perch, its warm beams stretching across the desert-like landscape. It was a perfect day for driving, Mike had mused. Ignoring the posted speed limit, he pushed the GTO up to at least a good 80 MPH. It was a wonder that he didn't lose his wool cap, considering how strong the breeze was at that speed.

He topped a hill, then spied something odd on the side of the road. Curious, he pumped the brakes and slowed the car just enough to get a better glimpse at the heap on the gravel shoulder.

It was shaped like a person. A person and what might have been a guitar case.

Mike brought the car's speed down even more and noted the extended thumb and poorly-written cardboard sign: "CALI OR BUTTS"

"Butts?" he said to no one. "That's weird."

He could have kept driving. Part of him said he should have, but the more compassionate portion of his psyche insisted that he pull over. So he did.

_Mike, what are you doing? You know you shouldn't pick up hitchhikers!_

_But what if he dies out here? I can take him to the next town. It's not that far._

_What if he's a criminal?_

_What if he's just down on his luck?_

Against what he felt was his better judgment, Mike put the car in reverse and carefully backed up the shoulder of the road until he was a couple of feet from the transient. He hopped out of the car and approached the stranger with some degree of trepidation. Erring on the side of caution wasn't a bad thing, he had learned.

"Hey there," he called to the scraggly form huddled in the gravel. "Need a lift?"

A smile cut its way through the scraggly mess of beard on the stranger's face. Bright blue eyes pierced through his unkempt bangs. That hopeful expression looked entirely out of place on the poor hobo's face. He stood and anxiously grabbed his few belongings, running for the car.

"Thanks so much, mister," he chattered happily. "If you can just get me to the next town, I'll find a way to pay you for gas or something."

Mike peered at the hitchhiker's face. He sounded so _young_, but it was impossible to gauge his age through all that dirt and hair. "Well, since we're both headed West and I'm not one to leave a fellow musician in a bind…" He nodded at the instrument case, which was now piled on top of his bags in the back seat. For a moment, he wondered if maybe this guy was carrying something a little more sinister. Mike had seen enough old gangster movies and his imagination was running wild. Still, he took a chance. "Whatcha play? I know that's not a guitar."

"Banjo," came the reply. "It's about the only thing I've got. Folk music's getting big in California, so I thought I'd give it a shot." He rifled through his knapsack, pushing aside a pile of what had to be the dirtiest clothes Mike had seen in his life. At last, he pulled out a small package and unwrapped the contents—part of a yellow snack cake—then took a tiny bite. Mike could see his the hollows of his cheeks and eyes and it made his heart ache.

Apparently, the stranger could feel Michael's eyes locked on him and he offered up the remainder of his makeshift meal. "It's a little stale, but…"

Pushing the hitcher's hand aside, Mike shook his head. "While I appreciate th' thought, I ain't much on Twinkies." The stranger nodded in understanding, then gingerly wrapped the rest of his rations and put them back into his bag. "What's your name? Y'know, so I don't have to resort to callin' ya 'Hey You'."

"I'm Peter," the hitchhiker answered, smiling.

"Nice to meet you, Peter. I'm Mike."

Peter looked at him, thoughtful. "You're the first person who's asked my name this whole time. Thanks."

"How else are you supposed to make friends if you don't try t'find out who they are?" Mike said. He brought the car back up to his favorite cruising speed. He felt his nerves finally starting to unwind. He noticed that his new passenger was beginning to relax as well.

Peter leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs. He stared at the road a while, then let his head fall against the seat back. "You're a good friend, Michael. I'm glad you stopped." It wasn't long before the hum of the road lulled him to sleep.

* * *

It was late when the two boys found a motel. Granted, it wasn't the best thing in Arizona, but at least it was a step up from the fleabag joints Mike had passed on the way. Peter had proven himself very helpful in finding accommodations for the night, though his reasoning might have been lost on anyone not paying attention.

"This one is no good," the dirty-haired blond had said as they pulled through the parking lot of the Donnington Inn. He pointed to the half-lit sign and the mostly dead shrubs nestled around it. "If they won't take care of their plants or their sign, they probably don't take care of their rooms."

Mike pondered this a moment and scratched his head thoughtfully. "You got all that from the sign out front?"

The other boy nodded eagerly. "Plus, look at what it says."

With its missing letters, the neon flashed a dismal _DONT_. It was all Mike could do not to laugh out loud. He managed to tone it down to a few snickers.

"Good eye, Shotgun. I can't argue with that."

They ended up at a little spot called The Twin Cactus Inn. It seemed to pass Peter's approval, since the parking lot was clean, the outdoor landscape was healthy and green - as well as sharp, since it was full of cacti and prickly pears - and the fully-lit sign cheerfully blinked that there was a vacancy.

Once the boys had arrived in their room, Mike flopped face-first onto one of the beds. "Oh, thank God," he groaned, voice muffled by the thick comforter. "I could sleep for days." At last, he rolled onto his back, letting his hat fall off his head as he took in their temporary surroundings. Compared to higher-quality hotels, it was a tiny room, but when Mike thought of how cramped things sometimes were back home, it felt downright spacious. Judging by the aqua and yellow color scheme, it appeared that the place had been recently remodeled, right down to some of that new shag carpeting. The fruity - floral mix on the faded wallpaper was a bit of an eyesore; maybe it didn't much matter since most of their patrons were probably too tired to notice. At least the sheets were clean and the bed had proven extremely soft, enough so that Mike found himself already relaxing. He stared upside-down at Peter, who sort of hovered at the bathroom door, knapsack still in hand. The boy shook his hair out of his face and sort of whimpered, prompting Mike to right himself and sit up. "Not tryin' to sound mean here, but when's the last time you had a shower?"

Peter scratched at his beard, steadfastly avoiding eye contact with his new friend. "It's been…a while." He nervously pulled at his hair, then glanced at the mirror and cringed. "I look like a hobo."

"Well, you kinda are," came the Texan's blunt answer. He saw Peter's shoulders droop and his hair fell back into his face. Mike could almost feel the shame creeping across the room toward him. "Hey - Don't worry about it anymore, right? That's all over now," he quickly amended, while scrambling to dig through his own suitcase. "Here." He revealed a small, black case and pressed it into Peter's free hand.

The other boy looked up, blue eyes damp. "What's this?"

"A 'lectric razor." Mike patted him on the back and smiled. "Start with that."

It was tough to see through the mess of hair on his face, but Peter smiled. "You're my best friend, you know that?"

"We've only known each other a day, Pete."

The blond shrugged, still grinning. "Doesn't matter. I've got a good feeling about you, Michael." With that, he disappeared into the bathroom.

* * *

Nearly an hour passed before the lavatory door opened, startling Mike from his nap. He scrubbed at his eyes a minute or two as he tried to focus on the skinny, shirtless form in front of him.

"…Peter?" He looked so _young_. Without that shaggy beard on his face, he didn't even look like the same person. His hair was still terribly long, but it was finally clean. It stuck to the sides of the boy's head, showing off a set of ears that his head had not quite grown to fit yet. He really was just a kid.

"Thanks a lot, Mike." He handed the razor case back to the dark-haired boy. "I almost look like me again!" He fumbled around with his bag, rifling through it until he had retrieved what had to be the only clean set of clothes he owned anymore. As Peter yanked a T-shirt over his head, Mike couldn't help gawking at him. _He could count his ribs_, for crying out loud.

"When's th' last time you ate?"

Peter stopped and gave the question some serious consideration. He scrunched his face up, then seemed to remember, before he frowned and ended up mired back in his thoughts. This pattern repeated itself at least three times in a row before Mike stopped him.

"If you've gotta think that hard about it, then it's been too long." Pulling himself away from the comfort of the plush bed was difficult, but Mike managed it, plopping his knit hat back on his head. "There's an all-night diner 'cross th' way. C'mon, we'll getcha some food."

"But I have this…" Peter held up his carefully rationed Twinkie package, nestled within its now very dirty wrapper. He sighed in defeat. "Besides, I'm broke. You've already done enough for me that I can't pay back."

"Maybe I ain't through yet," Mike argued, taking the stale snack cake from his friend and tossing it at the wastebasket. It landed with an unsettling _THUD_. He handed his denim jacket to the blond boy. "Friends don't keep score of things like that anyway."

* * *

Upon entering the diner, Mike noticed that Peter very hastily tied a knot into his hair at the nape of his neck, then tucked the resulting ponytail into the collar of his jean jacket. There was no doubt in his mind that Peter had been turned away from more than one establishment based on his long-haired, hippie appearance. It was then he noticed they were among truck drivers and burly motorcyclists.

Thankful for his wool hat, Mike wasted no time tucking his own hair underneath its edges. While it wasn't really _too_ long, he didn't want to take any chances with this crowd.

Peter and Mike were seated by an older waitress, a cheery woman with a bouffant that had been bleached so many times, it had the consistency of cotton candy. She put them at a booth near the rear exit door. "I see that look on both your faces, boys," she chimed happily, "and don't you worry. Them fellers wouldn't hurt a fly, much less a couple of little stringbeans like you."

"That makes me feel some better," Peter said, relieved.

Mike squinted at the woman's faded nametag. "Thank ya kindly…Doris. You got any suggestions for a kid who's prob'ly starvin', but too proud to admit it?" He arched an eyebrow and nodded at his friend across the table, which caused Peter to sink in his seat and hide behind his menu.

Doris took a good look at the blond boy and shook her head. "Best suggestion I can give you, honey, is to _chew_." She offered a friendly smile before disappearing to tend to the other restaurant patrons.

A strained grumble erupted from Peter's side of the table. Mike did a double-take and pointed at him, or rather, his stomach. "Pete - "

The boy descended further in the booth, enough so that if he went any lower, he would be on the floor. Mike nudged him in the shin with his boot. "You cut that out!"

"Michael, I'm starving and I'm embarrassed," Peter finally squeaked. His expression was pained and shameful, a deep hurt in his eyes. He folded his menu and slid it across the table before crossing his arms and resting against the seat back. "I'm miles away from home and I'm scared," he sniffled lowly. "I've already been mugged twice, someone stole my suitcase, and now I don't even know why I thought running away was a good idea." His sniffles gave way to quiet tears and he turned his head toward the window, away from Mike.

If Mike wanted to be completely honest with himself, he was terrified of the risk he was taking. He had left home with no real plan, except to A) get to California and B) make money while there. Thankfully, his fortune had been considerably better than Peter's, but the other boy had been gone from home a lot longer and had already been through so much for someone his age. He was unprepared for genuinely "roughing it"; he seemed to have gotten this far by pure dumb luck alone.

It was sobering for Mike to realize that he might have actually saved a life. No wonder the kid was so thrilled when he had picked him up.

Peter desperately needed a friend on this journey.

"Hey, Pete," Mike began, albeit hesitantly at first, "when we get to California, I'm thinkin' I might need a roommate. Housin's more expensive there than it is back home and it sure would help both of us."

He saw Peter's eyes light up. "You mean it?"

"Of course!" They were interrupted by Doris, who had brought them a full carafe of coffee and a stack of pancakes each. Both boys looked baffled. Mike pointed at the foodstuffs, stammering. "Um, Dor - Doris. Nice lady ma'am, what's with the - uh - I mean - "

"I'm afraid we didn't order those, ma'am," Peter said as politely as he could.

The waitress threw a hand on one hip and gave the pair of them an amused grin. "_Both_ of you look like you could use about a week's worth of groceries in you right now. It's on the house, kids."

Their eyes widened. Peter looked like he was ready to burst into tears again. "Thank you!"

Shaking his head, Mike happily cut into his serving of pancakes. He stuffed a couple of pieces in his mouth and looked across the table at Peter, who seemed to be blinking an awful lot. "You okay?"

Laughing, Peter dabbed at the edges of his eyes with a napkin. "I can't believe I'm getting emotional over pancakes. This is so dumb, but here I am, right?" He finally began devouring his meal.

"It's not dumb. It's relief!" Mike took another bite. "I think your luck is changin'."

The blond stopped mid-bite, fork still in his mouth, and appeared to take his friend's statement quite seriously. "Maybe you're good luck, Michael."

The dark-haired boy nearly choked. He regained his composure, though his voice still crackled around crumbs that hadn't quite made it down his throat. "I wouldn't - ahem - I wouldn't say _that_. Maybe we were just meant to meet each other and that's made things better."

Peter nodded eagerly, unable to answer since his mouth was full of enough food that his cheeks puffed out.

The boys remained there for a good couple hours, talking and laughing, genuinely getting to know each other outside the confines of the car. Mike learned that Peter was a true runaway. His parents weren't simply disagreeable about his choice of career; they had apparently nurtured his insecurities enough that he felt pushed out of his own family. He packed his things, got on a bus and things had gotten worse from there. In turn, Mike told Peter about his life in Texas, including caring for his Aunt Kate's goats, playing with his cousins and the loss of his mother when he was still very young.

"What about your dad?" Concern was heavy in Peter's voice.

"Never knew him," Mike groused. "He left Momma when they were still datin'. If I ever met him, I can't say I wouldn't punch him in the face."

"Violence doesn't solve anything," Peter warned. "Bet you could outsmart him, though."

"Bet it wouldn't take much." He caught the smirk on Peter's face as he finished his coffee. "Been meanin' to ask you 'bout your sign. 'Cali or Butts'?"

The first response was an exasperated eyeroll. "It's supposed to say 'Cali or _BUST_', but some mean kids at my last stop ruined it while I was asleep."

"You couldn't write on the other side?"

"They stole my marker."

By the time the two of them had finished their conversation and their meal, Mike had gone through two servings of pancakes, a side of bacon and eggs and a bowl of chili. It wasn't quite as good as his Aunt Kate's Texas chili, but it certainly wasn't bad. If there was a score being kept on food, however, Peter had bested Mike entirely by downing an equal share of pancakes, then following it with two hamburgers, three baskets of home fries, a serving of waffles, a BLT, and a banana split. Afterward, he put his head on the table and moaned.

"I think I overdid it."

"The nice lady said to chew your food," Mike tutted playfully, patting Peter on the side of his head. "Was it worth the indigestion?"

Peter shifted uncomfortably, then sat up again. "God, _yes_." He looked pained, but happy.

They were quiet for a time, while the clatter of dishes and low rumble of small talk went on around them. Exhaustion had begun to creep in and Mike felt his eyelids getting heavy. A glance across the table at Peter showed him that the feeling was mutual, since Peter had just nodded off.

Mike stood and stretched and gave the table a good shake, which roused Peter from his accidental nap. The ponytailed blond slid out of the booth and waited as his new companion left some neatly folded bills beneath the edge of his coffee cup before they left. On the way out, Mike nodded at their kindly waitress; Peter twiddled his fingers at her in a bashful wave.

* * *

Back at the motel, the boys each quietly tended to their own business. Mike cleaned up and readied for bed, as Peter took his knapsack and a handful of change to the motel's laundrette. When he returned to the room, Peter took a seat in the floor and began to carefully tend to his banjo - He checked its strings, examined the keys, even tuned it twice between playing a couple of ditties that Mike didn't recognize.

It wasn't long before Michael found himself in the floor as well, seated across from his fellow musician, and equipped with his guitar. The smile that Peter wore split through his exhaustion and he seemed somewhat energized again. He plucked out bouncy little bluesy-sounding tunes that Mike could easily pick up on to play along, much to his own surprise. If he happened to make an unusual chord change, Peter somehow picked up on it, and with absolute ease.

They made it through a few bars of a joint, impromptu composition before a heavy pounding came at their door, startling them both and shaking them out of their shared musical reverie. Mike held his hand aloft, hoping Peter understood that it meant for him to stay put. A thundering knock like that was far from a friendly thing.

He peered out the door's peephole and spied one of the truckers from the diner. He was a big fellow, complete with a crew cut and a threadbare jacket full of various truckstop patches. He chewed angrily on the end of a stogie. From the looks of him, Mike guessed that he probably weighed a couple hundred pounds and even with as tall as he was, the cigar-puffing brute outside their door most likely towered over his own wiry six-footish frame.

"Well, shit," Mike hissed quietly.

Peter stood up, but kept his distance. "Who is it?" he whispered.

"Trucker man. The _big_ one."

"Shit."

"I know y'all are in there!" the big guy yelled. "I heard ya!"

"Lock the doors and turn out the lights!" The pitch in Peter's voice was leaning more toward panic and Mike could fully understand why. If either of them were going to end up targeted for a fight, it would be the blond boy with the ponytail. He was, after all, a "longhair" and in more rural areas, some people didn't take too kindly to them. While Doris said none of the crowd at the diner would bother with them, she should have included the caveat that they wouldn't bother them _while at the diner_. There was nothing mentioned about the motel across the street!

Trucker Man knocked again, this time making the entire door shake in its metal frame.

Clutching onto the neck of his banjo, Peter huddled on the farthest bed, shivering. "What're we gonna do?"

It was a good question. What _were_ they going to do? Neither of them had been this far from home and Michael had certainly not encountered anyone quite like Trucker Man. Not intentionally, anyway.

"Pete, if it gets bad, you take my keys and get outta here. Find help."

"But Miiiiike…"

"No buts!" He inhaled deeply and steeled himself for what horrors awaited on the opposite side of the door.

Trucker Man was indeed much taller than he was. Possibly three times as big around. He had a tattoo of a topless dancing girl on his left arm; apparently, her name was "Thelma".

"Can I - Can I help you, sir?" Mike's voice cracked. He gave his most polite and helpful smile, meanwhile praying that this man was not about to ground him into dust.

The brute snorted and locked eyes with the skinny Texan. "You one o'them musician types?"

Mike tried very hard to sound brave and calm. "Um… Yessir?" It wasn't working.

"Hmm," came the reply, which was really not much more than an animalistic grunt. Trucker Man peered around Mike's shoulder and into the room. "How 'bout the pretty one back there?"

Mike didn't turn to look, but he heard Peter squeak and topple into the wall behind the far bed. "We're just mindin' our own business, sir, tryin' to get out West…"

The stare coming from the giant became more intense and focused. "I asked if you _played_."

"Yessir." Mike screwed his eyes shut and whimpered. "We do, sir. Sorry for disturbin' you, sir." Oh God, he was going to kill them both. Oh God. Oh _GOD_. If Peter could get out of there, maybe he would be spared the sight of too much blood.

Mike waited for a barrage of insults and punches that never came.

That was odd.

He cracked open an eye and unfortunately, Trucker Man was still there, still staring at him in that unholy way.

"I been on th' road for th' past fifteen hours and my radio's broke." He backed up and crossed his arms. "Know what I get? Static or some preacher man." He paused and paced a moment, then waved his arms frantically. "FIFTEEN HOURS!"

"We'll stop, I promise, just don't - "

Trucker Man leaned in, uncomfortably close. Mike could smell the nicotine and diner food on his breath, the combination of which did not mesh well. "You know any Johnny Cash?"

It was then that Mike nearly dropped his guitar. All he could do was stare at this lump of a man outside his motel room door…with a song request?

"Johnny Cash."

"Yep."

"The Man in Black."

"That's th' one."

Finally chancing a look back at his roommate, Mike found that Peter's expression mirrored his own: complete and utter disbelief. He boggled his eyes at the other boy, who could only shrug. Peter pulled his banjo strap back over his shoulder and began playing and whistling the first few bars of "Ring of Fire". When Mike turned around to face Trucker Man, he was smiling. Michael wasted no time picking up the chord progression and singing along, though he sounded nervous and shaky after all of that.

Within a few minutes, the young musicians had attracted a small, late night crowd, most of whom had been at the diner earlier. They finally ended up outside on the walkway, going through their shared knowledge of Johnny Cash and Roger Miller, with just a touch of Elvis on the side. When their audience began to dissolve, it was Peter who noticed that there was money around their feet. He and Mike excitedly scooped it up and ran into the room to count it.

Nearly a hundred dollars.

The tired travelers cheered and shared a hug, chattering in absolute surprise over their luck. It was agreed that they would split their earnings 50/50.

"We make a good team, huh, Shotgun?" Mike laughed. Peter nodded in excitement.

* * *

Clean clothes were retrieved from the motel's laundry room and Mike and his new friend at last settled in for the night. Mindful of their late bedtime, the alarm was not set for as early as originally planned. Mike was of the opinion that they had earned a couple hours' extra sleep.

His dreams were short and fitful, loaded with nonsense about goats and homefries and driving an endless highway to nowhere. He could hear his cousin Lucy laughing at him in the distance.

_"You'll never make it alone, Mike. You oughta know better."_

It made him want to cry, even just a little. For a second, he was positive that he was. He could hear the sobs. Soft, quiet, disconnected.

_C'mon, wake up and stop that. What're you cryin' over?_

When he forced his eyes open, he could still hear faint, muffled cries. Moving to sit up, he realized there was a form beside him.

Peter. Fully cocooned in his blanket from the opposite bed, he had piled himself on top of Mike's comforter and practically on top of Mike himself. He held fast to an old, sad-looking stuffed bunny, part of one ear stuffed in his mouth.

Drawing his knees to his chest, Mike propped his elbows on them and observed the boy for a minute or two. His breathing would hitch every now and then, bringing another small stream of tears.

"You really _are_ just a kid," he muttered lowly and patted his head, much like he had done for his cousins over the years. He looked so _tired_. Completely bone tired. He watched the boy draw further into the blanket and shiver.

The blond snorted sleepily, "M' skeered."

Mike hesitated to answer. "…So am I." He soon brightened a bit, however. "Don't worry 'bout a thing, alright? We'll get to California safe and sound. I won't let anythin' happen to you."

With that, Peter seemed to calm down and his crying slowed until it finally stopped. Happy that his care-taking skills remained intact, Mike rolled over and went back to sleep. In a way, perhaps what cousin Lucy had said was partially right. He might not have made it this far alone. Now he wouldn't have to.


End file.
